Priscilla sat in the silence of her chamber, her gaze fixed on the floor where Damien had stood moments earlier, fury flashing in his eyes before he stormed away. The clash with her son left her heart heavy and mind clouded with doubts. The ties that bound her to the Witch Clan felt tighter with each decision, each sacrifice she’d made to secure his future.

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. The plan she’d laid with Elder Zara had cost her nearly everything, and for what? To be bound in chains woven from curses and blood. Still, she reasoned, Damien’s future as the most powerful monarch, blessed by the Divine Light itself, would secure their lineage for centuries.

But at what price?

As she weighed the consequences of her actions, the air in her chamber twisted and chilled once more, breaking her thoughts. Priscilla’s heart sank. She had only just dealt with Zara—surely, the Elder couldn’t have more to demand so soon?

In the shadowed corner of her chamber, a figure appeared—a younger woman this time, draped in dark robes marked with the pattern unique to the Witch Clan. Her hair was twisted into braids adorned with bones, and her voice was softer, yet every bit as unsettling.

“Your Majesty,” the witch greeted with a slight bow. “Elder Zara has sent me.”

Priscilla’s expression was steely. “What now?” Her voice betrayed her frustration, though she did her best to mask it. The young witch, unfazed, held out a small porcelain bottle, its pale surface etched with the strange runes.

“The Elder asked you to take this,” the witch said, her tone smooth yet unyielding. “Inside is a potion—though some would call it a curse. It is to be placed upon the one you select as the sacrifice, the Chosen One.”

Priscilla’s gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing at the witch’s words. She asked through gritted teeth “And what, precisely, does this potion do?”

The witch’s lips curled into a thin smile. “That is not for you to know, Queen Priscilla. What you should understand is that within three months, the effects will take hold. When that day comes, we shall return to collect the Chosen One. Until then, the choice of whom to mark lies with you.”

With those final words, the witch vanished as mysteriously as she’d appeared, leaving Priscilla alone with the porcelain bottle in her hand. The chamber was still and silent once more, but an unease lingered in the air.

She held the bottle in her palm, its coldness seeping into her skin. Her blank gaze was fixed in the distance as thoughts roiled in her mind. She knew what the Witch Clan demanded—a willing submission, a pawn in their dark game. But once Damien ascended the throne, she reasoned, he would be strong enough to rise above such threats. Their family would hold power rivaled by none, blessed by the Divine Light itself. When that day came, perhaps the Witch Clan would no longer have any hold over her. Perhaps then, they would bow to her.

Her contemplation was interrupted by hurried footsteps approaching from outside. Panic flickered through her mind, and her hand instinctively moved to hide the bottle, but she was a heartbeat too late.

Damien burst into the chamber, his eyes immediately landing on the porcelain bottle in her hand. His expression darkened as he took a step forward, anger flaring in his gaze. “Mother,” he growled, voice tense with accusation. “What are you holding?”

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Priscilla felt the blood drain from her face. Still reeling from her thoughts, she struggled to regain her composure, but a surge of fury overtook her. Before she could stop herself, she slapped Damien hard across the face, the sound echoing through the chamber.

Damien staggered back, stunned, his hand instinctively reaching for his cheek. His expression was one of utter shock and barely suppressed rage as he looked at her, the hurt in his eyes was so evident.

“How dare you enter without permission!” Priscilla snapped, her voice sharp as steel. She trembled, though with anger as much as fear. “Do you have any idea what you risk by meddling with the Witch Clan? They are not like the enemies you’ve faced, Damien—they could obliterate us with a mere thought!”

Damien’s face softened slightly as he processed her words. Still clutching the bottle, Priscilla continued, her voice laced with a deep-seated fear. “They want a sacrifice, Damien. They call it a Chosen One, but it is nothing more than a pawn in their schemes.

”She held up the bottle, her gaze fixed on it as though it held all the darkness in the world. “This is to be placed upon whoever we choose… in three months, the effects will take hold, and they will come to claim the life of that person.”

As he listened to his mother’s explanation, a twisted smile crept onto Damien’s face, and he chuckled, a sound void of any mirth. “Is that all?” he said lightly, as if she had shared some trivial detail.

Priscilla’s brow furrowed in confusion and frustration. “Damien, do you not understand? We are dealing with dark magic. These witches do not play by our rules. One wrong step, and they will take more than just a life—they could destroy everything we’ve worked for!”

Damien tilted his head, his expression one of faint amusement. “Mother, they won’t dare harm us as long as we hold the ‘Chosen One’ in our grasp. Think about it. They need a sacrifice, not just any random pawn. We choose wisely, and they’re at our mercy.”

Priscilla blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his logic. A flicker of hope ignited within her—a tantalizing idea that perhaps, indeed, they could hold the Witch Clan at bay.

“But who?” she murmured, her tone softer, contemplative. “Who could we choose?”

Damien’s smile widened, his gaze sharpening. “We could select anyone of lesser importance,” he replied, though his mind seemed to linger on something—or someone—specific.

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. “Do not play games with me, Damien. If you have a candidate in mind, speak plainly.”

With a barely concealed hatred in his eyes, Damien leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nastra. Edric’s young, precious daughter, the little princess adored by father.”

Priscilla stiffened, her eyes widening. “Nastra?” she echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “She is the apple of the king’s eye, Damien. If he discovers we harmed her, you could lose your claim to the throne. We could lose everything!”

But Damien’s expression was resolute, his voice calm and persuasive. “Mother, you always speak of our family’s destiny, our bloodline’s right to the throne. This is our chance to prove it. No one would dare suspect us, and even if they did, we are too powerful, too established, to be brought down by mere suspicion.”

Priscilla’s hands clenched around the bottle, her heart racing with a dangerous mix of fear and ambition. Damien’s words struck at the core of her deepest desires—the power, the authority, the legacy she had fought for all her life. But the king’s wrath was a real deal. This is a very dangerous consequence.

Seeing her hesitation, Damien pressed on, sensing the wavering of her resolve. “Mother, think about it. When I take the throne, when our family stands at the pinnacle of power, no one—not the Witch Clan, not even father, the King himself—will have the strength to challenge us.”

Priscilla’s breath caught, the weight of his words settling into her mind. She searched his face, and what she saw was a fire so intense, a conviction so absolute, that it was impossible to ignore.

“Nastra,” she murmured, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “It would be the ultimate betrayal. The king would never forgive—”

“He doesn’t need to forgive,” Damien interrupted, his voice cold and unyielding. “He just needs to believe she met an unfortunate fate. And the Witch Clan… they won’t care about the details. All they want is a chosen soul.”

A long silence stretched between them, each contemplating the weight of their decision. Finally, Priscilla drew a shaky breath, her gaze hardening as she looked down at the porcelain bottle in her hand.

“So it is settled,” she whispered, almost to herself, the finality of her choice resonating through her voice.

Damien inclined his head, a triumphant glint in his eyes. “Yes, Mother. Nastra will be our sacrifice.”

Priscilla felt a shiver run through her, a sensation of both dread and exhilaration coursing through her veins. She was sealing a pact that could end in their ruin—or their eternal rise.